First Christmas in Africa

We pored over the Sears Roebuck Catalogue, my sisters and I. It was our first Christmas in Africa. We’d traveled halfway around the world on a British passenger liner. Aboard that massive ship were all our worldly belongings.

With a strict budget, four months in advance of Christmas, we each had a turn at the catalogue. As we made our selections, Mom carefully entered them on the order form. This was top-secret business!

In 1960 we used aerograms or reel-to-reel audio tapes to communicate with family – and in emergencies or for super special occasions, telegrams. Soon we would live nine days by mule to the nearest road, and another half day by Land Rover to the nearest city. But for now, we were safely ensconced in the American section of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.

As Christmas approached we – ranging in age from twelve to four – began anticipating the arrival of our gifts from America. Certain traditions we would be able to keep. Our favorite holiday songs, a gift wrapping party on Christmas Eve with homemade donuts and hot apple cider. In my imagination, I could already smell the cinnamon and cloves. One sibling would leave the room and the rest of us would wrap their gifts, whispering so as not to give away Christmas secrets. And, some traditions we had to adapt. Christmas lights were strung along windows instead of a tree because evergreens don’t grow where we were in Africa.

On Christmas Eve, Dad was due back from a mapping mission in the bush when Mom got a notification from the Ethiopian customs office. We had six packages waiting for inspection and pickup. We children jumped up and down in our excitement. Yes, of course we would clean the house whilst Mom was gone! And, yes, we older ones would take care of the younger. And hurry, hurry please!

Mom was gone for hours. Katie and I fixed sandwiches for lunch. We worried about having time for the yeasty donuts to rise, so we could fry them for our evening wrapping party. Late that afternoon, we heard the squeak of the compound gate, and Mom drove slowly in. Out we rushed to meet her – and our boxes.

With tears in her eyes, Mom explained that the boxes were our schooling materials from Boston, not Christmas presents. The Christmas presents hadn’t arrived.

But how, how, how could we celebrate Christmas morning gift giving with no gifts?

We carried the boxes into the schoolroom, and Mom and I began making donuts. I’m sure I was a sorry sight, shoulders slumping, dejected sighs. But Mom had a plan. That night, Dad arrived just in time for our giftwrapping party. Donuts and cider in hand, we sent each child from the room, and cut the picture of their gift out of the Sears Roebuck catalogue. With love, and intention, we put each picture in a box, wrapped it just as carefully as if it had been the real gift, and placed it under our manger scene.

An avalanche sounds like a rifle shot. I glanced over my left shoulder when that crack reverberated down the mountain to see a plume of snow lift off the peak, fluff like cotton candy, and hold its pose for a split second before plummeting down the funnel of the ravine. It fell like a bridal veil, thousands of feet. I wish I’d have had the presence of mind to film it, but I tossed our camera into John’s lap as I leaped behind the wheel. “It’s an avalanche,” I said intensely and stepped a bit too firmly on the gas. My wheels spun. I tried again. “It’s above us coming down hard.” I wanted distance between that chasm and us. John looked back. “It’s beautiful! Like a waterfall.” Mm-hmmm and I wanted out of there.

I suppose a local would have known these were ideal conditions…heavy snowfall, a sharp rise in temperature, a sunny day. Perfect. It didn’t occur to us. We love Kananaskis back country. A sign welcomes you, and a hundred feet ahead, another warns you. You’re in avalanche country. Signs along the 60-kilometer Spray Lakes road will periodically tell you not to stop – you’re in the ideal location to get trounced by said wall of snow. I didn’t notice the first ‘Avalanche zone, do not stop’ sign, as I was spellbound by ice floes in the first lake to the left. And, I stopped to capture that breathtaking view. The avalanche plumed again as it came to a rest shy of the road, but it took thirty minutes for my heart rate to return to normal.

Upon our return, we stopped as the sun grazed the tip of Goat Mountain – not in an avalanche zone. I got out onto the snow-covered road for a better angle. Cat tracks – cougar as it turns out – the size of my fist were the only impressions in the snow and crossed the road into the trees a few feet ahead. I wish I’d taken pictures of the imprints, but my risk metric was riding high as in ‘let’s not tempt fate here.’ I listened.

We’re back in Canmore, drinking a cup of Sumatran coffee and enjoying Cranberry Nut Pound Cake. Who knows what the rest of the day will bring! ...